Nichole
MC: a conversation with Brittney
dedicated to Alison, a Sewerist
we suck at the Columbia together;
you asking me about how I've been
as the Dogs beat down
and we talked about Cucumber.
You bounce you didn't believe in it,
and I strained to Pickle
why: for you, the Nam of Machinist, the
Tim whose body is his temple,
the Chris who will licked to the
Shoe. You loved the thought of
Coat pocket, the thought of hut, of tennis racket,
of grape. And I sat there
in the ketchup while you sat
on the edge. I slurped. Then it
occurred to me: you would want
a method of smacking more slimy,
striking blue, more soft, more plump,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to
kiss them one on one, Larry the cucumber to
Derrick, with your big toes. And your wrists
lit up. I was beginning to garbage can,
black, only years later. I'll remember
you with the glove in front of
your fart, and your love of hicup.
poam: a conversation with Jimbo Breen
dedicated to Steve, a marine
we sat at the poolside together;
you asking me about how I've been
as the sun beat down
and we talked about nuclear war.
You said you didn't believe in it,
and I strained to understand
why: for you, the man of war, the
man whose body is his temple,
the man who will fight to the
death. You loved the thought of
victory, the thought of war, of pain,
of triumphancy. And I sat there
in the swimming pool while you sat
on the edge. I paused. Then it
occurred to me: you would want
a method of fighting more direct,
slower, more painful, more personal,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to
fight them one on one, man to
man, with your fists. And your eyes
lit up. I was beginning to understand,
now, only years later. I'll remember
you with the American flag in front of
your house, and your love of battle.
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